Fallen Dynasty (Dramione)

Eleven - The Feeling

Pulvis et umbra sumas

We are but dust and shadows.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Hermione sighed as she dragged her fingertips down the classic, forest green walls, her mind aching in boredom. There wasn't much she could do on these grounds since she feared to be seen too greatly.

So, her mind wandered.

She thought of her life before the war; of Hogwarts and her parents.

She thought of her dear friend, Neville, and how she wanted to give him a sign she was alive.

She thought of her planned out life with Draco — washed away by selfishness.

She thought of Ginny and Lavender and Dean Thomas and Colin Creevey. Parvati Patel and Susan Bones and everyone else they lost in this stupid war.

She thought of what Harry and Ron must be thinking now that she was dead.

Did they feel an ounce of guilt?

Deep inside, did they feel happy about it? Their revenge finally coming to fruition.

Something curdled in her stomach at the thought.

It was supper time and a delicious smell had brought her out of her room, wafting upstairs from the kitchen.

She could hear muttering from the room that was warm from the stoves being lit, a low baritone drifting to her ears. Her pace quickened at the sound of it involuntarily and before she knew it, she was swinging the door open and standing in the doorway.

She was frozen and almost in a dreamlike state as she watched Draco move through the kitchen with complete familiarity. Tears welled in her eyes, unable to stop herself. He was talking to himself- a trait he never was rid of - and making sure all of his measurements were right. A record player in the corner played his favorite orchestrated compositions as he cooked, his every movement perfect— almost like he was dancing.

A dust of flour covered his pale cheeks and he was raking the coals in the bottom of the stove, igniting them to a red hot intensity as flickers of ash fluttered around. He was dressed as casual as Draco Malfoy could bare — black slacks and a white button up tucked in with the sleeves rolled up. His black house loafers on his feet.  She watched the muscles in his arms bulge, the years doing him well. He was older now, in his later twenties, and gone was the boy she fell in love with, replaced with a man.

"If you're going to watch me like a creep, Granger, you might as well join me." She jumped as he acknowledged her, a cocky smirk dancing on his lips. "The salad still needs to be washed and dressed."

She was rolling up her sleeves and tying back her hair before the end of his sentence was finished and together, they moved around the kitchen with complete synchronicity.

She realized in that moment she could actually breathe — for the first time in five years.

She knew what he was going to ask for before he asked it, placing the ingredients in his hand and ignoring the perplexed and awed look on his face each time she did so.

A roast covered in a delicious gravy, complete with potatoes, onions, and carrots bubbled away in the oven. Fresh scotch rolls had steam rolling off them as he pulled them from the oven and placed it on the stove beside the Yorkshire puddings. The fresh salad, full of vegetables from the garden, was cut up, washed, and dressed in a crystalline bowl. Peas were cooking away on the stove.